And The Rat Laughed Read Free Page B

of the pitchfork. The neighing of the farmer’s horse as it crossed the wheatfield. The farmer lashing out at his wife: What did we need this for, you fool! And for next to nothing too. Jesus, that little Jew is a danger to all of us.
    Birds she didn’t hear even once. Maybe they were too far away. But planes she could hear clearly. Every time she recognized the muffled hum, she couldn’t help thinking of her father and mother, and clinging to their promise. Even if they were the meanest parents in the world, the kind who abandon their daughter, still she wanted to be with them. Every part of her body was aching to be hugged. The anger and the longing blended together. Never would she be able to tell them apart.
    The farmer woman was coming down the ladder. She threw down the bowl along with a spoon, and a bucket-toilet, and announced: You’re not coming up until you know.
    But the little-girl-who-once-was did not know what it was that she was supposed to know.
    ***

    Twice a day – soup and two slices of bread. That was how she could tell time. Whenever she got very hungry – and she did – she would gnaw at the potatoes. Then she grew worried that the farmer woman would count the potatoes, one by one, and would realize that some were missing. She learned to stick to the moldy ones.
    In a rare surge of boldness, she asked: If you hate Jews so much, why did you agree for me to be under your ground?
    The farmer’s wife said: Just pray that the money arrives. And spat on the ground of the darkness.
    Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.
    The little-girl-who-once-was stammered voicelessly, stumbling over the words. In the darkness, the farmer’s wife aimed an expert hand at her cheek and slapped her. You little sinner, she said, say it out loud. How can you expect to learn it unless you say it out loud? We should have asked for more. To think what you cost us.
    The farmer’s wife took the little hand and made a cross over her body time after time until she was satisfied.
    Up above, the farmer was muttering: I’ve had it. I’m handing her in. Enough of this story.
    Muttering – just like her parents. When they spoke about her, they lowered their voices.
    She didn’t want to become a grown-up. Ever.
    ***

    The old woman has no illusions. Her story is made of stumps. The chances that it will be mended at this late stage are very slim.
    All around her, old people are losing their memory. In her heart of hearts she envies them.
    The more the old woman recounts, the more she remembers. And the more she remembers, the less she recounts.
    This conversation, on a sunny Tel Aviv afternoon, is becoming intolerable.
    ***

    The little-girl-who-once-was kept shrinking and shriveling, absorbing the darkness into her. She learned to take up less and less space. To behave like a perfect subterranean creature. Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
    Once a week, the old woman goes to the doctor, hoping that he will not discover the clots of darkness blocking her blood vessels.
    ***

    “Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee,” the one who had had children with her would quote the Psalm to her. Pretty words that even she, or so it seemed, could understand. He had never stopped seeking consolation. She had never called him “husband”.
    He had been hoping to find an explanation, or at least some meaning. It wasn’t the old woman who had sent him searching. He went of his own accord. Perhaps he felt that of the two of them, it was in fact he who most needed compassion, because he had chosen a wife predestined to see him as someone who would turn his back.
    Again and again, he had tried to prove to her that